


yours, in the gathering dark

by epidendrum



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Sexual Coercion, Warden is a terrible person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epidendrum/pseuds/epidendrum
Summary: Zevran’s voice was steady. “You’ll have my blades, my talent with poisons, and my skills of subterfuge and stealth. But this?” He gestured broadly, taking in the tent, their proximity, her unlaced tunic. “This cannot continue between us.”She curled her fingers around the belt across his armor, tugging him off-balance and bringing them eye-to-eye. Her smirk was chilling. “Do you plan to uphold your oath, or not?”
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Cousland, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kinkmeme prompt - 
> 
> "Zevran is recruited and he and the Warden start flirting and then sleeping together. But after some time Zevran starts having second thoughts, maybe the Warden's making some decisions he disagrees with, maybe they're not treating him well, so he tells them he wants to end the relationship. The Warden's not happy with this and reminds Zevran he swore an oath to serve them and demands the relationship continue. Zevran unhappily goes along with it and reasons that it's no different from what he had to do in the Crows sometimes.
> 
> The rest of the party don't realize what's happened and think the relationship is still consensual and Zevran keeps acting like he's happy, talking up the sex and deflecting the truth. Some of them think badly about him especially if they realize he doesn't care for the Warden and call him out on it.
> 
> I'd prefer a happy ending with the party eventually discovering what's going on and rescuing Zevran from the Warden."
> 
> If this doesn’t sound like something you want to read, give this one a pass. In addition to the warnings in the tags, there's a brief mention of Zevran's past suicidal ideation, but that's not a major theme of this story.

His doubts began at the top of the Circle Tower. Rosalyn Cousland condemned two dozen mages to die with the easy candor of selecting a dish for dinner. But her command to slaughter the Dalish clan had been beyond what he could stomach. In the ancient ruin, beneath the black gaze of the Lady of the Forest, with the stench of werewolves heavy in the air, he found that his mind was already made up.

Now, in the forest’s gathering twilight, Zevran had come to her tent to speak it.

Rosalyn looked up at the sound of the canvas flap. She lay on her stomach in a nest of furs, with her chin propped up in one palm to read the book below her. She wore one of Zevran’s tunics, laces loose, the brown linen dark against her pale skin. It was the only thing she wore. Her long legs were bare, kicked up behind her and crossed at the ankles. Around her face, honey blonde hair fell in waves, textured by the braid that she unbound at the end of each day.

Weeks ago, the sight of her like this would have brought a wicked grin to his face. Now, it did nothing to sway his conviction. He let the canvas fall shut behind him.

Lately, the Warden pitched her tent some distance from the rest of the camp. Kept complaints about noises down. But for the moment, Zevran was grateful, because it meant they could have this particular conversation in private.

Rosalyn set the book aside and raised herself to sit cross-legged. “I was worried you weren’t coming to see me, Zev,” she purred. “You seemed so put out, earlier.”

There was no point to mincing words. “I’m leaving.”

She raised a single eyebrow. Her expression was impossible to read.

Zevran folded his legs beneath him as he settled onto the furs. “I wish you luck in your quest to end the Blight. It must be done, and you and Alistair apparently must be the ones to do it. I merely hoped to reclaim a few of my things before I departed.” He let some of his usual humor creep back into his voice, with a meaningful glance at the tunic she wore. “I believe you’ve also borrowed a pair of daggers, yes?”

For a few breaths, Rosalyn regarded him thoughtfully. Then she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re that worked up about the Dalish, are you?”

 _Worked up._ Zevran managed to conceal the wave of enmity that washed over him, channeling it into a brief flex of his fingers. He kept his voice light. “You’ve made the decision you believe is best. But if this is the path you insist upon, I’m afraid I can neither participate, nor stand by if you choose to send others.”

“So you’re acting out to get my attention? Honestly, I’m flattered.” She smiled as she said it, easy and teasing.

Despite himself, Zevran’s face set in anger. He turned away from her and pulled a canvas pack into his lap, undoing the buckles with quick, airy precision. He began to rifle through the pack’s contents. “I rather hope I have your attention,” he quipped, drawing forth a curved knife with a worn hilt. “Candidly, I believe you will have trouble convincing Alistair and Leliana to follow this particular plan, as well.” He sheathed it across his back in a practiced movement, then continued his search inside the pack.

Rosalyn simply watched him, head cocked to the same side as her half-smile. “You know, I wouldn’t normally tolerate this kind of behavior from someone who’d sworn an oath to serve me. But from you, it’s strangely stirring.”

“Be stirred all you like,” he said dryly. “It doesn’t change things.”

“What happened to, ‘I’m your man without reservation?’”

“You did, as I’ll remind you, have me at your mercy.”

“What’s changed now?” The rustle of furs was his only warning. The dagger he sought wasn’t in her pack at all. There was a whisper of silver in the evening air. Zevran reached back to draw, but Rosalyn was faster. Her gray eyes gleamed, twin to the blade she held against his adam’s apple.

Her breathing rose and fell evenly below her tunic. She’d raised herself onto bare knees to loom over him. Even sitting, she was taller than him and her shoulders were broader, details which always pleased her. At this moment, her size was to his disadvantage. With her left hand, Rosalyn reached out to run her knuckles along the line of his jaw. It took all his self-control to avoid flinching away from her touch.

“Zev.” She traced his tattoos with her thumb, from temple to cheek. Her voice had gone soft and dangerous. “What’s changed now? Are you suddenly unafraid of the Crows? Have you found someone else you think can protect you?”

He swallowed. Expert pressure kept the blade from piercing his skin. He didn’t think she’d harm him, but if he was wrong - another wave of hot adrenaline and anger overcame him. To think he’d wanted to die, once, that he’d hoped she’d be the one to finish him -

Zevran made himself shrug. “You’ve simply left me little choice.”

As quickly as she’d drawn the dagger, Rosalyn pulled it away. She twisted it deftly so the blade was flat against her forearm. Zevran’s eyes followed the movement, then snapped up to her face again when she spoke.

“Here’s a choice. Stay, and I’ll spare the Dalish.”

Zevran blinked.

“Stay,” she said again. “Uphold your oath to serve me. Tomorrow morning, I’ll bring the clan leader to talk to the damn werewolves. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Searching Rosalyn’s sharp, lovely, face, he saw no signs of a lie, but no soul behind her eyes. Just one more casual, life-or-death decision she made, guided more by her own whim than any true moral compass. If anything, her impromptu offer only strengthened his revulsion. His fist tightened at his side.

But where _would_ he go without the Wardens’ protection? If his was a choice between Rosalyn and the Crows, surely this arrangement was preferable. He was generally in the business of taking lives, not sparing them. Here, he had the rare opportunity to grant a reprieve. He couldn’t bring himself to squander it - couldn’t justify the selfishness of leaving, merely because he didn’t like his boss. Not if his decision condemned the clan to die. 

Really, the matter didn’t require much deliberation at all.

“Very well,” he said softly. “I will stay.”

“Good.” Rosalyn’s smile turned self-satisfied, as if she’d won some prize. “I’m keeping this.” She slid the dagger into a sheath tucked away beside her bedroll. “And I’m keeping you.” Her other hand drifted from his face down to the belt across his leather cuirass. He stopped her when he placed his hand over hers.

Zevran’s voice was steady. “You’ll have my blades, my talent with poisons, and my skills of subterfuge and stealth. But this?” He gestured broadly, taking in the tent, their proximity, her unlaced tunic. “This cannot continue between us.”

She curled her fingers around the belt, tugging him off-balance, bringing them eye-to-eye. Her smirk was chilling. “Do you plan to uphold your oath, or not?”

Zevran went very still.

“I specifically remember bed warming was one of the services you offered.”

Distantly, he thought back to the day he failed his final mission for the Crows. When he’d awoken from unconsciousness, his flirtation had been automatic - a bid for his life and a giddy release of tension. Babbling from the sudden relief of being alive after weeks spent wanting to die. As they got to know one another better, the progression from teasing to consummation had been much the same. Rosalyn was dangerous and attractive. Staying in her tent was an easy way to stay in her good graces.

Still holding him in place with her right hand, she laced the fingers of their left hands. Rosalyn’s murmur echoed his thoughts. “Zev… I’ve spent weeks watching you fight. When you set up your little ambush, I’m sure now that you were going easy on me. And I’ve often wondered why. It’s only natural for elven men to desire human women. Did you already dream of this - ” she took his hand and slid it over her breast. Her nipple was pebbled beneath the rough linen.

“Warden - stop this.” He tried to jerk his hand away, but her grip on his wrist turned vicelike.

“‘Warden?’” she laughed, “What happened to ‘Rose?’ Or all those lovely things you whisper in Antivan?”

She leaned in to brush her lips against his cheek. “I ask because,” her teeth grazed his earlobe, “ _I_ went easy on _you._ ”

Her attention would have been welcome, even a few days ago. Now, it filled him with a queasy mixture of arousal and fear. Zevran made himself laugh. “You would not be the first to have designs for me from the moment you laid eyes on me. I have that effect on people.” He tried again to move away, but she closed her lips around his earlobe and his breath went briefly ragged until her mouth left his skin.

He drew an unsteady inhale and tried again. “But that was then, Warden - Rose. Do not ask this of me - ”

“I’m not _asking_ anything.” She drew back and looped her arms around his neck. Her elbows were heavy on his shoulders. “These are my terms. For sparing your precious savages, you will serve me however I ask. And I expect you to do so with your usual enthusiasm and charm, and to be very _demonstrative_ of the desire I know you feel for me.”

Zevran knew he was afraid from the eerie calm that overcame him. Things in the tent came into sharp focus - the feeling of pelts and blankets beneath his legs, the shape of the packs against the tent wall, the floral perfume from Rosalyn’s hair. Her gray, half-lidded gaze: piercing, hungry, expectant.

He thought of fetid dungeons in Antiva - of ropes, racks, and brands - of the dispassionate expressions Crow recruits would wear while they dissected him. But then, unbidden, he thought of the village they’d seen not twenty-four hours ago. Children running barefoot between the aravels. Old women tending the halla. The way the sunset shimmered golden through the leaves.

His shoulders rose and fell for a single, long breath. “I understand. And I accept.”

Rosalyn bit her lip as she searched his face. “Hmm. You say that… but I’m still a bit hurt that you planned to choose some stray knife-ears over me.” 

Somehow, hearing the slur in her voice wasn’t a surprise. It stung in a distant way, like a wound to a numb limb. 

She pulled away from him and let her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes gleamed. “Tell me you still want me.”

Zevran was no stranger to lies like these. He’d told them before, and he knew how to tell them well. Still, with bile coating the back of his throat, some things were easier to say without words.

He lifted her wrist to his lips. He kissed the soft skin there, letting his tongue dart over her pulse. Somewhere above him, he heard her smug inhale. 

Rosalyn put two fingers below his chin and tilted his face upward until their eyes met. “Tell me. You want me.”

Zevran's mouth found hers. He kissed her with a careless anger that could almost have been mistaken for passion. She rolled his lower lip between her teeth and bit hard enough to pierce the skin. He pulled away, but her fist was in his hair, with a tug that forced a growl from the back of his throat. 

She licked a bead of his blood from the corner of her mouth, smiling like a cat that had pinned a songbird. “Say it.”

Rosalyn relaxed her grip on his hair, enough that he could lean forward. He kissed her again, softly, and his broken lip stung. With his eyes closed, forehead pressed against hers, Zevran barely breathed, “Of course I want you, _hermosa._ ”

She grabbed the collar of his cuirass and tugged him down onto the furs. Zevran felt like he was being pulled under water.

* * *

In the morning, she was true to her word. Negotiations between the Dalish clan and the werewolves went better than Zevran could have imagined.

In the evening, he was true to his. He flirted with her outrageously around the evening campfire, earning eye-rolls from Leliana and Morrigan, stoic disapproval from Sten and Wynne, and sincere complaints from Alistair. He always had a hand just above Rosalyn’s knee, or on the small of her back, or his lips against her hair. He had a dozen filthy jokes prepared, and she laughed easily at them all.

When he followed her back to her tent, she’d drug him inside and called him a knife-eared whore when she climbed on top of him.

* * *

The next day, they emerged from the forest proper and back onto the road. As was their custom, they took turns scouting ahead for darkspawn, bandits, or oddities like stray assassins. Zevran was happy to volunteer for the first shift - it took him farther away from Rosalyn, who had taken pains all morning to be nearby. In order to coax a near-constant performance of affection? Or perhaps simply to get a better view of his suffering.

He was surprised, however, when Alistair jumped at the chance to accompany him ahead on the road. They were barely a half-mile into the Bannorn's rolling hills before the Warden spoke up.

“So let me ask you something... what are your intentions with her?”

“Not the correct question,” Zevran quipped. “Better to ask what _her_ intentions are with _me._ ”

He’d said it a touch too bitterly, and Alistair was suddenly regarding him in an odd way. Zevran decided he needed to double down. “Why do you ask?” he teased lightly. “Do I detect a bit of jealousy, there? Feeling territorial, are we?”

Alistair made a face. “It’s all just… a bit much, y’know?”

“I am as much as she likes. Do let me know if you’d ever be interested in lessons.”

Alistair flushed to the tips of his ears, but he persisted. “I just get the feeling you’re not taking this very seriously. She's got a job to do and - and we all care for her. If you’re going to break her heart or something - ”

Zevran sighed. “Our Warden is a remarkable woman. Beautiful, intelligent, and a capable leader. I have no wish to squander my good fortune. As for ‘intentions’ - for now, naturally, I go where she goes.”

Alistair was content enough to continue their journey with limited commentary.

* * *

Most nights, Rosalyn gave up all pretense of caring about his pleasure. Most nights, he came anyway, tugging at himself with his mouth pressed between her legs, or spending as she rode him, driving her ass down against his hip bones hard enough to bruise.

Every night, once she was finished with him, he returned to sleep in his own tent.

They were using each other, he told himself. Which couldn’t account for the way he trembled as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Wynne confronted him one morning, just after dawn. The two of them were usually the first to rise in camp - her, because of her age, and him, because he slept fitfully.

She frowned at him over a pot of water that had just begun to boil. “You always leave her tent the moment the two of you are finished. I am shocked by your callousness. It’s plain that you don’t truly care for her.”

Zevran flashed a winning smile. “On the contrary, dear woman. Our Warden knows exactly how I feel about her.”

* * *

This was not so different than with the Crows. Better, he reasoned. Only one woman’s whim to answer to, rather than have his every movement dictated by his contracts and his masters.

 _Worse_ , whispered a traitorous part of him. _Because with the Crows, this sort of thing was one night, then you killed them afterwords._


	2. Chapter 2

Rosalyn’s thighs trembled on either side of his ears. She rode out her orgasm against his mouth, her praise and curses loud enough to wake half the inn’s occupants. Once her shuddering stilled, she rolled off him and they lay side-by-side, panting in the darkness. 

Zevran stared up at the ceiling as white spots cleared from his vision. His respite lasted a few breaths before he felt her hand on his shoulder.

In the weeks that followed his renewed promise, he had learned not to hesitate. He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned down to Rosalyn’s mouth, parting her lips with a tongue that still tasted like her. Moments later, he had clever fingers between her legs, but she laughed as she tugged his wrist away.

“Just once?” he murmured.

He felt her smirk. “You’re a wonder, Zevran.” 

She reached down to grip his cock, finding him barely half-hard. He jerked his hips - not _away_ , just in surprise - when she touched him. She laughed again, against his mouth, and tightened her fingers. He had to remember to unclench the muscles in his thighs to rut against her hand.

Rosalyn whispered, “It’s a shame I’ll have to give you up once the Archdemon’s dead. I’ve gotten very attached to you.”

His answering hiss might have been choked lust, or bitterness. “You flatter me.”

“So lovely. And so well-behaved.” As she worked him, she kissed down his jaw to the bruises she’d bitten into his neck. “You know, I don’t think I could bear it if you tried to leave me again.”

He concentrated on the feeling of her hand and imagined other lovers - a furtive tangle of limbs with an older recruit in one of Arainai’s storerooms, the soft skin of a baroness who hadn’t lived through the night he spent with her, Taliesen’s warmth against his back while Rinna grinned beneath them both, anything but - 

“Look at me, Zev.”

He opened his eyes.

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

Rosalyn’s gray eyes gleamed. Sweat glistened across her chest and stuck her blonde hair to her cheek. Her face was alight with heady, sharp exertion.

He could do this. More to the point, he _had_ to do this, so he'd find a way. It was fine. 

He could meet her eyes, pull their bodies flush together as he drew her in for a longer and filthier kiss. But when his lips left hers, he couldn't keep the bitter edge from his whisper. “I am yours.”

It wasn’t an answer to her question, but it was what she wanted to hear.

“How right you are.” She released him as suddenly as she’d taken him in hand. She hadn’t made much progress. With a luxurious yawn, Rosalyn turned her back and curled against his body.

They lay together in silence. Zevran kept perfectly still as his gaze slid back, unfocused, to the ceiling. 

After a few minutes, he turned his head to murmur against her hair. “What was the number on the room you reserved for me?”

“Hmm?” Rosalyn was already half-asleep. “Why waste the coin?”

He waited until her breathing slowed. Then, gingerly, he got up and went to a small wash basin in the corner of the room. A damp cloth cooled his cheeks and forehead. Water ran in rivulets down his neck, before the drops spattered the floor. Without bothering to dry his face, he pulled on tunic and trousers and padded barefoot for the door.

When their party left the inn’s common room, he’d paid some attention to who retired where. Mercifully, the door he sought was unlocked.

This room, too, had only one bed. Alistair’s broad body filled it. He was on his side, facing away from the door. His silhouette against the moonlit window was like a small mountain under a blanket. 

In the room’s far corner stood a soft, upholstered chair. Zevran settled in it with his hands folded over his stomach. After a few breaths, he drew his legs up and curled on his side, cheek pressed against worn velvet. As his adrenaline faded, the exhaustion that replaced it meant that, at least, sleep would find him quickly.

“What are you doing here?”

Zevran winced. No such luck. “Go back to sleep, Alistair.”

Blankets rustled. The Warden’s voice was soft, but he sounded alert. “Is Rosalyn alright?”

“Sleeping as soundly as a Sister after absolution.” Gently, Zevran unfolded his posture and set his feet on the floor. “I apologize for disturbing you. I’ll just - ”

There was a hiss as Alistair struck a match. Then the match lit a candle, and the room glowed into focus.

Alistair was sitting up in the narrow bed, propped against the headboard. He gave Zevran a once-over, before his brows knit together. “Are _you_ alright?”

Zevran imagined how he looked. His tunic barely laced, dark bruises down the side of his neck, dark circles under his eyes. He pushed a hand through his damp, unbraided hair so at least it didn’t cover his face. Time to regain mastery of his facial expressions. 

He offered a half-smile. “I’m perfectly fine. Simply tired after a rather… vigorous evening.”

“I heard, unfortunately.” Alistair’s flush was visible even in the dim light. His eyes lingered on the bruises. “You two do, erm - play rough, sometimes.”

Zevran’s grin showed a few more teeth. “Perhaps I like it that way.”

“Do you?”

The sincerity caught him off-guard. There was something unusually piercing about Alistair’s gaze, and Zevran suddenly felt he’d be safer if he didn’t lie. “I have enjoyed such games in the past.” He managed a lascivious eyebrow raise. Typically, embarrassing Alistair would deter further conversation. “The mixture of pleasure and pain can be exquisite, with a partner who knows what they’re doing.”

“Do you enjoy it now, though? With her?”

Zevran’s eyes narrowed.

Alistair sighed. “I just ask because - look, I don’t mean to pry - ”

“You’re not doing very well, then,” Zevran said softly.

“I can tell you avoid her around camp. You start when she says your name, you find reasons not to go on missions with her, but every night, you’re back in her bed - ”

Zevran cut him off. “The Warden and I have had our disagreements, but I consider those matters resolved.”

“Resolved enough that you still sleep with her,” Alistair said. It was somewhere between a statement and a question.

“Evidently.”

“But you don’t want to.”

Zevran was ready to curse him. Instead, he shrugged. “I might prefer that things were otherwise,” he said simply. “But that is life, is it not? I would prefer not to have wet feet when we travel through your endless Ferelden mud. I would prefer that Sten were a more lively conversation partner. I would prefer that _you_ learned to cook dinner without burning it.” He said it with a smile, but Alistair's face was stony.

“It isn’t like that,” he replied quietly. “Sex isn’t… an inconvenience to be endured…”

“I am surprised, dear Alistair, that you would feel qualified to lecture _me_ about what sex is and is not.” Zevran realized he’d stood up from the chair. Energy hummed through his body, and he had to make it anger instead of fear. Indulgent scorn dripped from his words. “Come back to offer me advice once you’ve even seen what’s between a woman’s legs.”

Alistair’s flush deepened, but he was undeterred. “If you didn’t go to her tent every night, what would she do?”

“Probably come into mine,” Zevran snapped. Then revulsion crashed over him like a wave. 

He’d felt like this was his choice, because _he_ went to _her_. Because he could wring a little pleasure out of it. Because it felt easier than any alternative. But there was no choice, not really. Like when the Crows gave him a job and let him pick between poisoned daggers or an iron chord - he’d kill for them, regardless. And now, no matter how he arranged it, he was being - 

“You don’t have to do this,” Alistair said, and Zevran was grateful the Warden’s voice was flat, not gentle or pitying. Alistair crossed his arms over his nightshirt. “Look, it’s not like I’ve agreed with everything Rosalyn’s done, but this is…” He shook his head, disgusted. “If you want an opinion from someone more experienced, I’m sure Leliana would agree.”

“I am not interested in opinions,” Zevran said. Curt but soft. “I merely wonder - would it bother you too terribly if I spent the night here?”

Alistair stared at him, his expression difficult to read. Then he leaned over to the bedside table and blew out the candle.

A moment later, in the darkness, a balled-up blanket collided softly with Zevran’s chest. It fit snugly around him as he curled against the chair once more.


End file.
